


Sausages & Condiments

by driftingstar



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! VRAINS
Genre: Awkward Crush, M/M, awkward yuusaku, yuusaku is vaguely mean to revolver
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-01-26 13:29:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12558412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/driftingstar/pseuds/driftingstar
Summary: "The first time Yuusaku meets Revolver in the flesh… he burns his hotdog."a.k.a. the AU you never wanted where Yuusaku is conveniently left to man the hotdog truck when Revolver comes down from his Tony Stark-mansion.  Set during episode 20 and onwards.





	1. Link 1 - Side A

 

“Excuse me.”

 

Yuusaku looks up at the youth standing next to his table.  Tall, pale haired and staring at him through a set of steel-blue eyes. He had been too deep in thought to notice his approach.

 

“Can I help you?” Yuusaku asks while inwardly sighing. After a long day without a single customer, the moment Kusanagi-san steps away is the moment one decides to show up.

 

After a beat, the other boy looks from him back to the van with Kusanagi’s horrible logo plastered over the side and then back at Yuusaku again. His gaze is expectant.  “I'd like to order a hotdog.”

 

Yuusaku stares at him flatly, holding his gaze for probably longer than it is socially acceptable. But unlike with his classmates, the youth merely stares back.  Eventually, Yuusaku breaks off the staring contest and turns back to his screen, considering it for a moment before locking his laptop. He also considers telling him he doesn't actually work here but ultimately reconsiders.

 

One, Kusanagi’s business isn't doing well enough that Yuusaku can turn away his customers. Two, Yuusaku doesn't want to explain why he's hanging out at a hotdog stand with no customers when his uniform clearly says he should be in school. And three, the sooner he gives this guy what he wants, the sooner he can get back to work.

 

He stands slowly, meandering over behind the counter and pulls on one of Kusanagi’s spare aprons and then stares down at the empty grill.  Since the place had been all but dead, there isn't any that he can just reheat.  Yuusaku sighs outwardly this time as he reaches down to grab a fresh package of frozen sausages.  He has seen Kusanagi do this hundreds of times, so surely it can't be that hard?

 

It turns out that, yes, it can definitely be that hard, especially with the blue-eyed youth watching him like a hawk the entire time.

 

“Is it supposed to be that colour?” he interrupts while Yuusaku is trying to remember where they kept the buns.  He looks back over at the dogs and frowns. Ah. He had forgotten to turn it.

 

Yuusaku shrugs, scooping up the sausage and stuffing it into a bun before unceremoniously shoving it at him.  The youth glances down. The hotdog is blackened and shriveled and still half-frozen, the condensation turning the untoasted bun soggy.

 

“Here you go,” Yuusaku says, his face immaculately blank. “Condiments are on the side.”

 

Slowly, Yuusaku’s hapless customer looks down at the world’s saddest hotdog and then back up at him, his face equally blank. After another long, stilted silence with neither of them moving an inch, he surprises Yuusaku by reaching out to take it.

 

“Thank you,” he says, holding out a couple of coins that Yuusaku automatically takes without thinking.  Their fingers brush together and they awkwardly jerk away.

 

Here, Kusanagi might have cheerfully called out for him to enjoy his meal or to come visit again but Yuusaku says nothing as he watches him leave. The sapphire waves crash against the rocks as his silhouette fades into the distance until nothing remained from that encounter except for a couple coins clenched in his fist and a lingering sense of awkwardness.

 

“Hey, I’m back.” Yuusaku’s head snaps up to see Kusanagi waving sheepishly as he strolls up with an armful of supplies that probably won’t see any use today.  “Sorry for making you mind the truck. Did any customers come by?”

 

Yuusaku briefly entertains the idea of telling the truth, but that would involve recounting that supremely awkward encounter and admitting that he can’t do something as simple as grill a hotdog.

 

“No,” he says.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

In between chasing down false leads and unsettling rumours about duellists falling into inexplicable comas, that awkward encounter had fallen into the back of Yuusaku’s mind. Buried among the everyday drivel of homework assignments he doesn’t bother to do and the myriad of other awkward encounters that came with the territory of having no social skills to speak of.

 

Until Yuusaku catches sight of the odd youth with striking blue eyes and white hair slowly meandering towards him through the crowd at Kusanagi’s usual spot.  For some reason, he freezes like a rabbit caught in the headlights.  

 

After a few seconds of outright staring, Yuusaku shakes himself out of his daze.  There are plenty of good reasons for someone to be wandering around the busiest part of town-

 

The youth comes to a stop right in front of the truck.

 

Yuusaku isn't sure if he's glad Kusanagi had stepped away again or not. He inwardly sighs again and wonders if he's here to make a complaint or to threaten to put Cafe Nagi out of business for selling him a shitty hotdog.

 

“... can I help you.”

 

He phrases it too flatly for it to be a question but the youth seems unbothered as he continues to stare at him with unreadable blue eyes. Yuusaku stares back, noting the other boy is slightly taller which forces him to tip his chin up.

 

“I’d like to order a hotdog,” his unwanted customer finally says.  

 

For a moment, Yuusaku wonders if his audio feed is malfunctioning until he remembers he's not in Link VRAINs anymore.  The look he sends him is just short of incredulous, but he sighs.  It's probably too late for him to say he doesn't work here.

 

Mechanically, Yuusaku tosses another frozen sausage onto the grill, only marginally knowing what he's doing.  The pale haired youth with the staring problem is unabashedly watching his every move again with sharp, aquiline eyes.  Not one to be intimidated, Yuusaku stares back wordlessly with only the sound of the crowd and the sizzling of his overcooked sausage filling the silence.  This time, he at least remembers to grill both sides, even if he hadn't gotten the timing right.  

 

The hotdog Yuusaku holds out this time still looks like shriveled charcoal shoved into a limp bun but at least it's probably all the way cooked.  Green eyes lock with blue, almost challengingly.

 

“...It's a bit burnt,” the youth comments on the obvious after another drawn out silence and Yuusaku wonders why he had expected anything different when it had been obvious that Yuusaku had never grilled a hotdog in his life.

 

But instead of making a fuss, the youth accepts it with another polite “Thank you”, inadvertently brushing Yuusaku’s fingers again when he goes to pay. This time, the touch lingers longer than necessary and Yuusaku finds himself absently touching his hand long after the youth fades back into the crowd.

* * *

 

 

“Why do you toast it?”

 

Kusanagi-san blinks at him with a bewildered expression, his hands frozen around a pair of tongs. “Toast what?”  Yuusaku gestures at a pair of hotdog buns lying neatly on the grill and his expression clears and a grin breaks across his face.  “Ah. That's to stop the bread from getting soggy.  And if you lightly butter it first, you get this really nice texture. Why do you ask? Could it be you’re interested in a real part-time job here?”

 

Yuusaku shrugs noncommittally.  “It's not like you can actually afford to pay me.”

 

“Ouch, harsh,” Kusanagi-san laughs. “But fair. What brought on the sudden curiosity?”

 

“No reason.”

 

“Ohh? Is there something you're not telling us, Yuusaku- _chan_?” Yuusaku’s expression pinches as his annoying hostage chooses this moment to materialize, the lines on his face curved up into what is clearly a shit-eating grin.  “Maybe it's because of that prettyboy who keeps-”

 

“Leave the jokes to just your face.”

 

Yuusaku ignores Kusanagi’s bewildered expression as he brutally mutes the Ignis.

 

* * *

 

 

The rumours of comatose duelists are no longer just rumours.  Media outlets have even given it a name; Another World Syndrome. Yuusaku stays up every night, hunched over his laptop researching while Ai makes a nuisance of himself in the background. He sleeps through class and no one bothers to talk to him, with Shima Naoki being the occasional annoying exception.

 

And throughout all of it, almost like clockwork, the blue-eyed youth continues to show up at the truck to order one of his terrible hotdogs.  His visits were sporadic but regular, and he manages to miss Kusanagi almost every time. Occasionally, he makes small talk as the sausages sizzle and Yuusaku occasionally decides to reply with more than a pointed silence.  He never lingers for long afterward, is never anything but unfailingly polite and always has exact change. Always watching Yuusaku with those intense blue eyes and Yuusaku finds himself watching him back.

 

Entirely out of suspicion.  

 

One, if he had been a Cafe Nagi regular, he could understand the frequent visits, but prior to that awkward encounter by the cliffs, he had never once seen this man before. (Well, Yuusaku doesn’t actually care enough to be good with faces but he’s positive he wouldn’t forget a face like _his_.)  Two, no one possessing tastebuds would deliberately subject themselves to his culinary disasters that can and has made Kusanagi-san weep.  Which therefore leads him to number three: this guy must be after something else.  Specifically him.

 

Yuusaku’s brow furrows as his mind races across the possibilities, slowly veering off into the territory of paranoia. He can only think of several reasons why he would catch a stranger’s interest and most of them aren’t good. As far as his public records show, Fujiki Yuusaku is an utterly unremarkable student in the bottom half of his class and therefore shouldn’t be attracting any kind of scrutiny at all.

 

Could he be Hanoi?  No, Yuusaku wouldn’t have done anything to give away his identity. No one would connect PLAYMAKER’s true identity to a bored looking teenaged boy who shouldn’t be anywhere near a grill.  

 

A faint burning smell alerts him that he’s left the sausage cooking for too long again and he picks it up with the tongs. He turns it over critically, noting that this time it’s only blackened on one side. Yuusaku lowers it into a lightly toasted bun and loads it up with a little bit too much filling.  The end product doesn’t look so much like a hotdog than a victim of a grisly crime scene with all the ketchup running down the sides but the youth still doesn’t complain.

 

Instead, he glances up at him and the corners of his lips slowly curve up. “Thank you,” he says and for some reason, Yuusaku’s breath catches, like a glitch in the program.  The youth’s hand is warm as it closes over his.  Long, elegant fingertips brushing against his skin, deftly closing his fingers over the change he presses into his palm.

 

“...enjoy your meal,” Yuusaku hears himself say and it takes him a second to ascertain that _yes_ the words had come from his own mouth and _no_ it couldn't have been Ai’s attempt at mimicry again since he had left his duel disk at home. Whatever the cause, he regrets it instantly when the youth’s smile widens he can read the amusement leaking from his normally blank visage.

 

“I intend to.”

 

* * *

 

Hanoi recruits more and more people; thugs and mooks with only a modicum of talent but their overpowered cards make them more than a match for the average duelist. Yuusaku sleeps even less, especially after watching the haunting footage of someone being swallowed up like Blue Angel had been.

 

The only highlight of his week had been letting Shima Naoki make an ass out of himself, but the rest of it had been frustratingly unsatisfying.

 

Between researching and hacking, Yuusaku doesn't spend his time perfecting his grilling; carefully turning his sausages until they're cooked to a beautiful golden brown and measuring the fillings down to the precise gram.  He doesn't do any of that because the youth with the intense blue eyes and no tastebuds stops showing up at Cafe Nagi.

 

By the time the Hanoi launches their all-out attack on Link VRAINS, Yuusaku learns to stop looking for him.


	2. Link 1a - Side B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time Revolver meets Yuusaku.

Link VRAINS is maintained by the greatest technical geniuses that the world has to offer but there’s something about the faint tang of salt on the sea breeze and the crispness of the early morning air that just can’t be replicated through zeroes and ones. Revolver lets out a sigh as he gazes over the railing, watching the waves crash against the rocks.  There is something comforting about this unchanging scenery.

 

Except, today, something is different.  Revolver spies a yellow van parked by the grass with a pair of tables set up in front of it. It’s an unusual sight; this far out in the city means that there is rarely any pedestrian traffic, especially not enough for someone to set up shop. 

 

Revolver frowns, absently rubbing the phantom ache in his shoulder as he contemplates going back inside. There is still much work to be done; his defeat at PLAYMAKER’s hands still stings.  Not only did he fail to retrieve the Ignis, but he had been soundly beaten, even losing some of their own data. It set their plans back significantly. 

 

But the one thing that weighed the most heavily on his mind was PLAYMAKER himself. One, his hatred for Hanoi. Two, his proficiency with Cyberse monsters… and three: his mention of the incident ten years ago. It was too much to be a coincidence. He replays the encounter almost obsessively in his mind, poring over every interaction, every word as if it could yield any new insights.  

 

“Could it be you? After all these years?”  

 

Only the sound of the sea answers him and Revolver sighs again.  Going back into the darkness of cyberspace no longer holds as much appeal. He straightens up, working out the kinks in his back as he decides to take a quick walk.  It would do him some good to exercise his real body for a change.

 

He finds himself wandering down the path, the soles of his shoes tapping quietly on the pavement.  There isn't really anywhere to go from here but down; a sentiment that also seems to apply to the rest of his life. Revolver’s footfalls end up taking him down by the yellow truck decorated with a silly cartoon creature. The sign is simple and modest: Cafe Nagi - coffee & hotdogs. 

 

It strikes him with an odd sense of whimsy; how many years has it been since he had properly interacted with the outside world? Or put anything into his body that wasn't carefully regulated by his father? Revolver doesn't usually give into impulse but he ends up wandering over.

 

The stand seems to be abandoned but before he can feel disappointed, he sees a boy perched at one of the tables, seemingly engrossed in whatever he's doing on his laptop. An employee, possibly?  Revolver supposes he can't blame him, considering how dead business must be. Since he had come all this way, he strolls up to him and quietly clears his throat.

 

“Excuse me.” 

 

The boy stiffens, clearly startled and Revolver almost starts to feel bad until he turns to face him. The sight of those vivid green eyes hits him like a punch in the gut and he finds himself at a complete loss for words. His face is so painfully familiar that it squeezes his chest like a vice as the long forgotten past surges up to overlap with the present in the form of ghostly memories.  The white rooms, the screams, the young, terrified voice crying out for him.

 

“Can I help you?” 

 

The boy’s bland tone carries a hint of impatience and is just shy of rude. There is no recognition, no sign that this encounter is anything but ordinary. And just like that, the phantoms disperse, leaving him staring blankly down at a stranger. 

 

Revolver clears his throat again, looking back over at the sign as if to remind himself of what he was doing before he got himself distracted. That's right.  He was here to do something.

 

“I’d like to order a hotdog.” 

 

After a few more moments of staring, Revolver wonders if he had said something wrong or if he hadn't heard him since the other boy makes no move to get up or… move.  He ends up studying his face intently, wondering how much of that haunting familiarity was due to his own wishful thinking or if his gut feeling had at real merit. Revolver is startled when he does finally move, pushing off from his chair and slamming the lid down on his laptop and wandering towards the truck.  His movements are almost deliberately languid. Perhaps a passive-aggressive act of rebellion at being forced to move.  

 

Revolver digs in his heels and stands his ground; he had already come all the way down the cliffs and he's inclined to leave with something to show for it. The boy eventually makes his way behind the grill, slowly shrugging off his uniform jacket and rolling up his shirt sleeves.  Revolver’s mouth goes drier than normal when the boy yanks off his tie and his gaze lingers slightly on the pale hollow of his throat.

 

_ PLAYMAKER’s avatar wears a turtleneck.  _

 

A stray, insipid thought glitches across his brain and he quickly buries it and casts his gaze around to focus on something else. But there really isn't anything else remotely interesting to look at which is why Revolver continues to watch him intently.  

 

If the boy is at all bothered by his sudden and inexplicable fixation on his clavicles, he doesn't give it away. His face is immaculately blank aside from a slight knit in his brows as he sifts through the cupboards. Finally, he unceremoniously dumps a sausage onto the grill and stares right back at him with those vivid green eyes.  Revolver must really be out of it today because he only realizes any time had passed at all was when the smell of burning hit his nostrils.  

 

He frowns down at the sausage blackening on the grill.  If sausages were sentient, it would probably be writhing in agony.

 

“Is it supposed to be that colour?” he asks, only to be met with a gaze so indifferent that it somehow left him feeling foolish for asking. 

 

As if to punish him for his foolish question, the boy unceremoniously crams the suffering thing into a soggy bun and shoves it in his face. One side is completely blackened while the other still had traces of ice particles clinging to its skin. How could it be partially frozen? Surely the heat should have worked its way through?  Revolver watches with trepidation as a drop of condensation drips down the side and into the bun. 

 

“Here you go. Condiments are on the side.” 

 

Revolver reflexively looks over to the side where he can see red and yellow dispensers but no amount of ketchup or mustard could make this hotdog palatable. He looks back up into bored green eyes that held just a hint of challenge and finds his mouth going dry for reasons that had nothing to do with his overcooked sausage. 

 

Perhaps he's in shock.  His body moves more or less on autopilot and he surprises himself when he reaches out to take it anyway. Apparently he surprises the reluctant employee too, judging by the slight widening of those jewel green eyes and it short circuits his brain enough that he ends up falling back on generally accepted patterns of behaviour like saying thank you and paying for his food. 

 

A bolt of electricity passes through his skin from where he accidentally made contact with the boy’s fingers and he finds himself jerking away out of surprise.

 

He had (sort of) gotten what he had come for which meant he had run out of reasons to linger even if he had to almost physically tear himself away. After one more awkward pause for the road, Revolver turns and begins his long trek back up the cliffs, his pulse hammering in his chest for some inexplicable reason. 

 

Revolver was a man who had declared war on the entire virtual world. He had made it his mission to exterminate the Cyberse and all its ilk no matter what enemies he will make along the way. He will command armies and raze Link VRAINS to the ground. 

 

And he’s apparently exhibiting the symptoms not unlike that of an awkward school girl with a crush. Revolver heaves another sigh at the sight of his home, tension returning to his body as the white building reminding him of his purpose. He can't afford any distractions.  He's the leader of the Knights of Hanoi. 

 

But there is still a weight in his hand and he belatedly realizes that he's still holding onto the hotdog. He stares down at it with a complicated expression on his face, seemingly at a loss of what to do with it. 

 

He frowns and weighs his options.  One, he should really throw it out.  Two, the thing looks even less appetizing now that the bun was entirely limp.  

 

But… he had already paid for it.

 

Out of morbid curiosity, Revolver brings the hotdog closer to his face and takes a bite.

 

It is completely inedible.

 

Hours later, Revolver is still gagging as he tries to get the taste of charcoal and regret out of his mouth.

 

* * *

 

 

Revolver frowns at the screen through his avatar’s featureless gold pupils.  With the amount of time he spends here, it feels more familiar to him than his real body.  With every passing moment, the seed of Hanoi’s ambitions creeps ever closer towards realisation.  Soon, they will finally see their efforts bear fruit. With or without PLAYMAKER’s efforts to get in their way.  His subordinates are out there now, hunting him down and scattering a trail of breadcrumbs for him to chase. Though the thought of PLAYMAKER falling at the hands of anyone else fills him with irritation.

 

No, PLAYMAKER would not be defeated by anyone other than himself.  But now is not the time.

 

With their forces rapidly growing and the computer virus nearing completion, Hanoi is on the verge of breaking through to the next phase of their plans.

 

Unfortunately, Revolver isn't thinking about any of that at the moment. 

 

No, as a matter of fact, he's not poring through his subordinates’ reports or going over their security algorithms.  

 

He's glaring intensely at a 3.6 star Yelp review for  _ Cafe Nagi - coffee & hotdogs _ like it held the key to unraveling the secrets of the universe.  He flicks through the inane comments (‘ _ the chilli dogs are decent’, ‘the guy there is kinda hot _ ’) but none of them tell him what he wants to know.  Or maybe Revolver is the one who doesn't know. 

 

There are a couple other pictures: a young man wearing a goatee and a beaming smile, faces of satisfied customers, and another snap of the cafe with a small, blurry image of the blue haired boy sitting listlessly at a side table.  Revolver immediately saves the image and abuses the power of the most advanced image scanning and face recognition program in the world.

 

Soon, Revolver is staring regretfully at an HD render of a school boy dozing off with a hand propping up his chin.  Next to it is a digital portrait drawn from every file he can get his hands on.  Which isn't much.  There was a sparse student profile, no social media pages, and a clean hospital record. 

 

Fujiki Yuusaku. 17 years old.  Subpar grades typical of someone who doesn't give a crap.  Member of the dueling club. Lives alone in a bad neighbourhood. 

 

No other hobbies or interests besides poisoning customers with shit hotdogs.

 

Revolver sighs.  What is he doing? 

 

A guilty swipe of his hand wipes away the images, leaving his screen blank once more.  But not before he memorizes his school address and the cafe’s most frequented locations.


	3. Link 1b - Side B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revolver has three problems.

 

Revolver has no idea what he's doing here.  

 

Here, being a gap in a narrow alleyway located about five hundred and sixty meters away from the main plaza with a perfect view of where a certain yellow van was parked. Revolver glares at the mirror clenched in his hand as he finds himself checking the coast for the second time in the last five minutes.

 

Nothing had changed. The man at the cafe ( _Kusanagi Shouichi, full-time cafe owner, a brother admitted to long-term care ten years ago - coincidence?)_ is wearing a smile just like in his Yelp photos as he serves a pair of customers.  There is still no sign of his reluctant employee with the jewel-green eyes.

 

Revolver resists the urge to do something that might give away his position like punching the wall in frustration or scream.  Really.  What the hell is he doing here?  

 

The absolute last thing he should be doing when he has a  _mission_ to fulfill is to waste his time stalking - conducting a personal investigation a whim. Although, it's becoming less and less of a whim and more like a personal hell of his own making. No matter what he does, his thoughts keep straying towards cool green eyes and blue hair like the damn pigeons that keep flying into his windows. It's only when he realizes that he has spent every morning peering over the cliffs in search of a certain yellow van that he finally admits he has a problem.

 

Okay, so maybe he does have a reason for being here. Not a terribly good reason by any stretch of the word but a reason nonetheless.  Obviously, the key to ridding himself of all those horribly intrusive thoughts is to satisfy his curiosity once and for all and figure out just what it is about this boy that makes him so difficult to get out of his head.

 

He takes one more glance into the mirror and his pulse leaps up a gear. He's here.  Fujiki Yuusaku is walking up to the booth and engaging the cafe owner in conversation.   Revolver feels strangely on edge as he observes them, his hand clutching tightly around the hand mirror.  Or maybe that’s just nerves from the sudden realization that the boy is capable of forming expressions. There seems to be a hint of a smile playing on his lips as he leans against the counter and his eyes are soft instead of bored.

 

Revolver keeps staring at them blankly, unsure of his next steps now that half of his objective is now in sight. Well, to be fair, he hadn't planned out all of the details beyond ‘find out when Fujiki gets off school and stalk his workplace until he shows up’.  Perhaps he had made an erroneous assumption that all of his questions and doubts would be magically answered upon observing him in the flesh once again.  

 

He is slightly disappointed that they were not.

 

Revolver quietly debates this newfound snag in his plans until he realizes that Kusanagi Shouichi is _leaving_ ; hanging up his apron and stepping out of the yellow truck with a wave.

 

Fujiki is alone.  

 

His feet are moving before he even makes the conscious decision to do so. He makes an effort to blend among the throng of pedestrians, all the while keeping his eyes unblinkingly fixed upon his quarry. With Kusanagi Shouichi temporarily out of the picture, this affords him his best chance.

 

To do what with, he's not sure.

 

Revolver finally comes to a stop, standing squarely in front of the boy with the haunting green eyes.  But now that he's right in front of him again, his mind is oddly blank. He can't seem to recall even a fraction of what he had been meaning to say.  

 

Well.

 

Shit.

 

“...can I help you.” The boy’s green eyes are even flatter than the last time which is almost impossible.  Revolver returns his stare blankly even if his brain is working furiously to formulate an answer.

 

_What do you know about the incident ten years ago?_

 

The burning question is on the tip of his tongue, practically scorching the insides of his chest as he tries to get it out. It ends up trapped somewhere in his throat where it sputters and dies.  On second thought, he doesn't want to be having this conversation in the middle of a public place while standing in front of a yellow hotdog truck.

 

Or maybe he just doesn't want to be wrong.

 

Revolver reigns himself back and casts around for another excuse that would neatly explain his presence here and not implicate him in any criminal wrongdoing, Hanoi or otherwise.

 

Ah.  That's right.  The answer is literally staring him in the face.

 

“I’d like to order a hotdog.”

 

There is a slight widening of the boy’s eyes as he is no doubt questioning Revolver’s shitty life choices and Revolver can't help but agree. Once again, he wonders just what he's doing here all the while mentally recording the boy’s every movement.

 

Fujiki’s motions are stiff and mechanical, like a fledgling AI unused to its functions and soon the air is filled with the sound and smell of sizzling sausage.  Revolver had hoped that this awkward stretch of silence might buy him enough time to think of something else to say, but he is once again coming up empty. To his chagrin, by the time he finally formulates a reply, Fujiki is already dumping a well-grilled lump of coal into a hotdog bun and shoving it at him.

 

Revolver slowly glances down with a hint of trepidation as he observes the shiny, blackened skin that can’t possibly be fit for human consumption.  “...it’s a bit burnt,” he comments before he can stop himself and he adds that to the growing list of things he regrets when Fujiki answers him with another blank stare that makes him feel rather foolish.

 

“Thank you,” he says instead and goes to pay, fishing out the requisite coins in his pocket. The metal is cool to the touch in contrast to the warm spark of static when his fingers brush against Fujiki’s.  For Revolver, time slows to a crawl and he feels like he's perceiving everything in frozen time; the way Fujiki’s bangs fall into his eyes, the gentle flutter of his eyelashes as he blinks, those damned clavicles peeking out from his shirt collar.  Revolver's throat grows tight, among other things and he has an urge to loosen his _own_ collar because the weather must have inexplicably gotten warm without him noticing.  

 

Fortunately, he remembers to pull his hand away before the situation can deteriorate any further, but not before he sees a hint of redness flash across Fujiki’s cheeks...

 

…

 

Huh.

 

All of a sudden, Revolver’s mouth goes terribly, terribly dry and all thoughts of potentially salvaging this self-appointed mission go right out the door.

 

He takes his burnt hotdog and escapes.  As a man of strategy, Revolver is more than capable of recognizing when one needs to make a tactical retreat and live to fight another day.

 

* * *

 

“Revolver.”

 

Revolver’s hand hovers over the button that will log him out and turns to watch as Professor Kogami’s avatar appears next to him with a crackle of static. The white of his coat, backlit by the large glowing screens stands out clearly in the darkness. Here, he doesn’t look a day older, unlike the still, emaciated form lying unconscious on the other side. Revolver moves his hand behind his back and turns to face him, staring into familiar gold eyes.  

 

“Father,” he intones with a curious lilt. Ever since the next phase of their plan had commenced, visits like this had been scarce. “Did you require me for something?”  

 

“Well… Not exactly.”

 

His father doesn’t respond immediately which fills Revolver with a slight hint of unease.  His brows knit together as he cycles through his recent files to see what could be causing his concern.  “Is everything alright? Has something happened with the program?”

 

“Everything is proceeding as we planned,” his father says which allows Revolver to relax. As complicated his feelings are towards the seed of destruction that they had planted, it’s one less thing to worry about.  “But there is something else I would like to discuss with you.”

 

And Revolver’s feelings of unease return full force.  “What is it?”

 

“Well. I noticed that you have been logging out a lot more recently.”

 

Revolver stares back at him, suddenly grateful for choosing such a blank-eyed avatar that can give nothing away.  And that he has been meticulously deleting his search history. “I have.”

 

Kogami Kiyoshi’s eyes are filled a fatherly wisdom that conversely makes Revolver more stressed than ever. “I understand that none of this is easy for you. If there is anything troubling you, I want you to know that you can confide in me. I am still your father after all.”

 

Revolver nods, his face unmoving as he deliberately refuses to think about green eyes and hair that keeps changing between blue and red.  He is so fucked.

 

“...Thank you, father.”

 

* * *

 

 

In hindsight, Revolver probably should have taken his father’s well-intentioned offer and spilled his guts. With each passing day, his problems only seem to grow.

 

First, is his turmoil over PLAYMAKER’s identity. He had refused to let on just how much his last encounter and subsequent loss had shaken him to the core. As much as he wished to be wrong, he is certain now that the one behind those haunting green eyes could be none other than the child he had consoled all those years ago.  In a cruel twist of irony, the saviour PLAYMAKER is so desperately searching for is actually his greatest enemy.  Revolver now struggles between two irreconcilable desires - to stop PLAYMAKER from interfering with their plans and to spare that little boy from any more suffering.  No matter how much he tries, it’s an algorithm that he is no closer to solving.

 

Second, is Fujiki Yuusaku.

 

In between his work, in between worrying over PLAYMAKER, in between the silences between each tick of the clock, Revolver finds his thoughts inevitably straying over to a certain high school boy with a dangerous ineptitude with grilling hotdogs.

 

Recently, he has developed a troubling routine of wandering down to the city center whenever he needed to clear his thoughts, or whenever the oppressive darkness of his usual crevice in cyberspace started to get to him. But being in Fujiki’s bored, lethargic presence had a way of quieting the demons in his head.  Or rather, Revolver found it difficult to do any kind of thinking when he was getting lost in those vivid green eyes.  Somewhere along the way, the strained silences grew slightly less awkward (possibly through sheer repeated exposure) and occasionally, Revolver finds his voice long enough to attempt conversation.

 

He sticks to safe, meaningless topics, like dry commentary on the weather or cautious probes whenever he tries to pry any kind of personal information out of him.  So far, they’ve established that Fujiki is a student and a duelist.  Both things that are completely obvious, since he’s wearing a clearly recognizable _school uniform_ and occasionally wears an old duel disk model. (Something that tugged further at his suspicions, but Fujiki had professed to not be very good when he had commented on it.)

 

Revolver has largely given up on trying to convince himself that this is mere curiosity.

 

He doesn’t mind commuting two hours a day just to spend five minutes staring at Fujiki’s ridiculously perfect cheekbones and well-defined clavicles.  No matter how unpalatable or straight out hazardous they look, Revolver inevitably ends up taking at least one bite out of the many hotdogs that were sacrificed to sate his growing obsession.

 

Revolver can only wonder what Fujiki thinks of him.  If he even remembers his face out of the hundreds that he sees every day.

  


Recently, however, Revolver isn’t sure if he is slowly building up an immunity or if there has been an improvement in Fujiki’s hotdogs.  He’s baffled to discover that the buns are now lightly buttered and toasted and he thinks the sausages are slowly becoming more like sausages and less like brimstone harvested from a rocky outcropping in hell.  Then, Fujiki does something to break their unspoken routine. Revolver looks up from a hot dog drowning in a lake of condiments, only to be blindsided by the look on Fujiki’s face.  It’s red again.  A faint, delicate dusting of pink blossoming across his face as he peers up at him through those sinfully thick lashes.

 

Either his visual cortex is malfunctioning, or is he actually _blushing?_

 

Revolver’s breath catches.  “Thank you,” he says as he focuses all his efforts on not letting his lips curl up like a maniac. And somehow, impossibly, the blush on Fujiki’s face seems to grow.

 

“... enjoy your meal.”  

 

Now, Revolver’s cheeks are starting to hurt and he knows he’s grinning like the fucking idiot that he is.

 

“I intend to.”

  


Third, Revolver is in love.

 

* * *

 

 

Revolver was in the middle of another information gathering session when the door suddenly chimes open.

 

He has never minimized anything as quickly in his entire life.  Standing in the doorway with his jaw hanging slack is Faust.  

 

“Revolver-sama… May I ask what you were doing?”

 

Revolver steels himself as he locks eyes with the man he had thought of as a brother. “I was looking at pornography.”

 

“Excuse me…?”

 

“Pornography,” Revolver insists without a single change in his expression.  “It is a perfectly natural thing for a young male of my age to partake in as a stress relief measure.”

 

The other man pauses but has the good grace not to point out that Revolver looks more stressed than ever.

 

“I… see,” he replies with a slight strain in his voice and Revolver stares back at him until he turns to leave.  “I’ll come back later when… when you've finished.”

 

“Please do.”

 

The door slides close soundlessly and Revolver makes sure to remotely lock it this time before maximizing his screens again.

 

No matter how awkward that was, he would rather them all think he's beating himself off than pining over candid photos of a boy he has barely spoken more than a few sentences to.

 

Hopefully, he won't tell Vyra.


	4. Link 2 - Side A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuusaku has three problems and they're all Revolver.

Yuusaku stops walking.

 

He then regrets stopping so abruptly because Shima slams right into his back and nearly knocks him over.  Despite being shorter, his classmate had a lot more body mass than he did.

 

“Ugh! Fujiki, what the hell?! You can't walk like a normal person either?”

 

Yuusaku pays his complaints absolutely no mind. The breeze whistles gently, scattering cherry blossom petals through the air but the calming sight does nothing to stop his stomach lurching when he spies a very familiar stranger.

 

“ _Fujiki_?” an incessant voice sounds annoyingly at his ear and Yuusaku shakes himself out of his momentary fugue and frowns. Brushing Shima off, he gazes evenly back into those unreadable blue eyes.  It's almost surreal to be staring at him without a burning grill between them.  

 

He takes a step forward, his expression unchanging.  

 

And then another.  

 

And walks right past him.

 

“Fujiki- _san,_ ” Yuusaku’s steps slow. His name sounds strange spoken in the stranger’s low, rich tones.  This time, he turns back around, no longer able to pretend that this is just a bizarre twilight zone-esque hallucination brought on by a lack of sleep. Sure enough, the stranger is still standing there, still staring at him expectantly.

 

For a moment, a pang of alarm shoots through him since he doesn't remember ever telling him his name. Luckily, before he descends into a paranoid panic, he remembers that Shima had been calling out to him pretty loudly.  The tension in his shoulders eases slightly. Since he doesn’t have the advantage of knowing the other guy’s name, he defaults to simply staring back into those crystalline blue eyes.

 

A jumble of emotion churns uncomfortably in his chest, too tangled and convoluted for him to figure out. There is a dash of _what is he doing at my school_ , followed by a large chunk of _this isn't happening,_ but mostly it's… annoyance.

 

The white-haired youth doesn't seem to take the hint, instead taking a step closer.  “Fujiki- _san_ , I would like to speak with you.”

 

“Uh,” says Shima after a rather long pause of neither of them talking or blinking. “Is this guy someone you know?”

 

Yuusaku considers it for a moment, taking in those intense blue eyes shadowed by pale bangs. Who seems to be slowly leveling a rather intense glare over at Shima who makes a choking sound as he backs away.

 

He makes a decision.

 

“No,” he says. “I have never seen this person in my life.” He deliberately ignores the stranger’s stunned expression while keeping his own as neutral as possible.

 

It's not like he's holding a grudge or anything.

 

* * *

  

“Uh, Yuusaku?”

 

Yuusaku pauses, finally looking up from his screen. There are dark circles under Kusanagi- _san_ ’s eyes and his hair is still mussed from sleeping at an odd angle. Yuusaku figures he probably looks just as bad, considering how little they had slept since the Hanoi began their next move.

 

More and more Another victims are appearing as Hanoi’s knights take to the streets, hunting down victims indiscriminately. Destroying countless innocent lives in their search for PLAYMAKER. Their attempts at creating an antivirus had only resulted in disappointment and wasted hours. It disgusts him, to think so many of these shallow thugs would jump at the chance to join them for just a modicum of power.

 

“What is it, Kusanagi- _san?_ ” he asks, rubbing his eyes and stifling a jaw-breaking yawn.

 

“Well…” the older man trails off, scratching at the side of his face. “I was just. Well.”

 

Yuusaku is now wide awake and he immediately turns in his chair away from his keyboard.  But his benefactor only looks more chagrined at being given his undivided attention. “Is something wrong?”

 

“Well, it's just. Lately, you seem kind of… irritated.”

 

“...Irritated?” Yuusaku echoes, slowly raising an eyebrow. With how things are going, irritated is probably too light a term to describe the boiling rage churning inside him whenever he so much as thought about the Hanoi.

 

Kusanagi gives a helpless shrug and holds his hands up placatingly. “Hey, I just mean. You seem snappier than usual. Like, you've muted Ai for two whole days now.”

 

The pair of them look at the Ignis askance, noting his slumped and defeated posture as rivers of tears stream down his face, and turn back to each other.

 

“I'm sorry, Kusanagi- _san_ ,” Yuusaku apologizes.  “I didn't realize I was taking my mood out on you.”

 

“No, no, that's not what a meant,” Kusanagi says hastily, running a hand through his hopelessly tousled hair. “I just meant - You seem like you're thinking really hard about something else. If anything is bothering you, you know you can talk to me, okay?”

 

For some reason, Yuusaku’s thoughts immediately jump to blue eyes and the sound of his name spoken in a smooth, velvety baritone (“ _Fujiki-san…”)_ and another wave of irritation washes over him.

 

“On second thought,” Kusanagi- _san_ yelps upon seeing the look on his face. “You can just tell me when you're ready.”

 

* * *

 

 

And suddenly, after disappearing for days and weeks, the stranger is now seemingly everywhere.  

 

Yuusaku catches glimpses of him as leaves school, bumps into him at street corners, finds himself reaching for the same carton of milk at convenience stores. It’s almost… suspicious just how frequent these unwanted meetings are, almost like they had been planned. But Yuusaku dismisses that thought as overly paranoid since this would require this complete stranger to know his exact schedule. He would rather save his paranoia for the Knights of Hanoi.

 

Each time, the white-haired youth opens his mouth to speak to him but each time Yuusaku manages to escape before the first syllables can form.

 

He can't explain why he is avoiding him like the plague. Only that the sight of his face is now accompanied by that familiar rush of irritation. His chest grows hot and his stomach suddenly feels like he had swallowed a colony of fluttery insects. (Not _butterflies_ , no matter what Ai says. Butterflies are far too harmless. No, what Yuusaku has an unwanted infestation of _bees_ , all buzzing around and driving him spare.)

 

Perhaps he should take Kusanagi- _san_ up on his offer and maybe once he gives voice to this strange irksome preoccupation it’ll actually go away and let him focus on what’s actually important.

 

One,  what the Hanoi are plotting, two, what to do about the Anothers.

 

And three, why the _hell_ Revolver still hasn’t shown himself.

 

He stops typing in favour of frowning at his screens. Images of wild red hair, blank gold eyes, and taunting smirks haunt him from every possible camera angle. He doesn’t know how long he has spent, dissecting their past interactions for some kind of hidden clue. But all his efforts are to no avail; his enemy had hidden away from the public eye, locking himself deep into the recesses of the net.

 

No doubt planning something repulsively criminal, like constructing a needlessly dramatic deus ex machina to destroy the world. 

 

* * *

 

“Excuse me.”

 

Yuusaku slowly looks up at the youth standing next to his table with a knot of dread in his stomach. Feeling an odd sense of deja vu, he stares up at him with the flattest expression in his large repertoire of unfriendly looks.

 

“...Can I help you?” he asks warily, all the while regretting not staying indoors. He had wanted to take advantage of the balmy weather for once. The salty sea breeze had been doing wonders for his mood. Until now.

 

The stranger looks the same as he did in his memories, although today, those piercing blue eyes seem even more intense than usual.

 

“Fujiki- _san_ ,” he says again in that rich baritone that has Yuusaku picturing such things as molten caramel and dark, dripping honey. Not that he finds either of those things appealing. “I was hoping to run into you again.”

 

Yuusaku doesn’t have the faintest idea why he would. And he’s not sure he wants to find out why since the more he looks at the other’s face (at that defined jawline, the soft wisps of white hair swaying in the breeze, the curve of his lips), the more the irritation inside him builds.

 

He stands up abruptly, the back of his chair legs scraping unpleasantly on the concrete. The sooner he gives this guy what he wants, the sooner he’ll leave him alone. “You wanted a hot dog, right?”

 

Without waiting for an answer, he turns and escapes into the van.

 

It’s unusually warm today, he notes as he yanks off his tie and unbuttons his collar. Then he rolls up his sleeves for good measure. Just before he turns, he catches a glimpse of the stranger’s Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. There is a ravenous quality in his gaze as it drifts over to him and it makes him wonder just how defective his taste buds must be.

 

Yuusaku moves almost on autopilot, slipping his arms through an apron as he steps behind the counter. This time, his movements are practiced and smooth as he makes neat little slices along the edge of the sausage before he lowers it into the heat. He turns it carefully, watching it brown as an appetizing aroma slowly fills the air. The buttered buns go on next and Yuusaku counts the long seconds in his head as he deliberately avoids any and all eye contact. Especially since he almost feel the stranger’s heated scrutiny, lingering on his every movement with an intensity that makes him feel like  _he’s_ the one turning on the grill. It’s not a feeling he appreciates.  

 

After what feels like an eternity, it’s finally done. Yuusaku examines it critically, checking for black spots but is oddly pleased when he finds none. There is something like a vindictive triumph in the way he presents his perfectly grilled hotdog to his first (and hopefully last) customer. Like he can finally close a bizarre and awkward chapter of his life.

 

“Here you go,” he says, shoving it at him with more viciousness than is probably merited. 

 

The stranger smiles politely, voicing the familiar “Thank you” as he goes to pay. Their fingers brush each other but Yuusaku breaks off the contact before it can linger and waits for him to leave.

 

But he doesn’t leave.

 

Yuusaku makes the mistake of looking up and finds himself drowning in a deep, endless blue as their gazes lock. He watches in a mixture of confusion and fascination as the other unwraps his hotdog with long, graceful fingers. Time seems to slow down as he brings it up to his mouth and Yuusaku finds himself unable to look away as those smooth lips slowly part, white teeth slowly sinking into the sausage’s glistening brown skin.  It’s impolite to stare at someone when they’re eating, but Yuusaku is doing it anyway. All the while feeling strangely warm as the youth’s pink tongue darts out to catch the excess juice before it can spill.

 

“Mm... Delicious.” The stranger’s lips are drawn up into another smirk as the words roll smoothly across his tongue. It almost sounds like a purr and Yuusaku’s breath catches hard when he spies a glint of blue through lowered white lashes. “I’ll come again, Fujiki- _san_.”

 

Yuusaku can’t help but stare as he turns to leave, his pulse is racing inexplicably as he tries to figure out what had just happened.

 

Ai decides to pick this exact moment to announce himself, materializing out of the duel disk he had left on the counter.

 

“I don’t think he was talking about the hotdog, Yuusaku- _chan_ ,” he sings, looking far too smug for a rogue AI that is about to be deleted.

  
Yuusaku’s eye twitches as one of his hands unconsciously start to reach for one of Kusanagi- _san_ ’s vegetable knives. “Mute.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> idek either, man


	5. Link 2 - Side B

_“... At this time, the renegade terrorist group known as the Knights of Hanoi is still at large. There has been no sign of Revolver lately but all duelists are warned to exercise extreme caution when entering Link VRAINS-”_

 

Revolver waves away the broadcast with a hint of annoyance. As much as it is important to stay up to date, recently the news hasn't done much for him aside from reminding him that he has been horribly remiss in his duties.

 

Their forces have expanded significantly but instead of overseeing them, Revolver has more or less left them to run amuck in Link VRAINS in their borrowed avatars and borrowed powers. His lips curl. The new so-called Knights were little more than glory hounds, barking at his heels for a taste of imagined power. They were meant to be a distraction at best, something to slow their enemies down while they execute their _real_ plans.

 

Although… Revolver hasn't exactly been doing that either. Right now, he has far more pressing matters to attend to.

 

“I'll leave the rest to you, Spectre,” he intones gravely as his loyal shadow sketches a bow, feeling a twinge of guilt at shoving his work on him again just so he can pursue his interests of a... personal nature.

 

“Of course, Revolver- _sama_ ,” Spectre says smoothly. But just before Revolver can log out, he continues. “Although, I was hoping to have a word with you.”

 

Revolver’s face stays carefully blank. “What is it?”

 

“Myself and the other knights have noticed that you have been spending an increasing amount of time on the other side. May I presume to ask if there is a matter that I can be of assistance to?”

 

_I need to figure out how to get Fujiki Yusaku to stop pretending I don't exist._

 

“I am merely conducting an investigation,” he replies smoothly. “It is nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

 

If Spectre is at all hurt by his dismissal, he doesn't show it. Instead, he straightens up, eyes shining with a zealous devotion that admittedly makes Revolver a little embarrassed. He never did grow out of that tendency to follow him around and worship the ground upon which he tread. “Could it be that you are following a lead on Playmaker?”

 

Revolver stills, before recognizing that he had been thrown a lifeline. “This isn't a matter for the Knights of Hanoi. I will not involve you or them in my personal endeavours.”

 

Unfortunately, that only fans the troublesome flames in Spectre’s eyes. “Anything that troubles Revolver- _sama_ troubles me as well. If I could do anything to alleviate your burden in any way, you only need to ask.”

 

Revolver nods solemnly as he squashes down another twinge of guilt. “Thank you. I will keep it in mind.”

 

He doesn't notice Spectre watching him as he leaves. He has another twenty minutes to fix his hair before he has to leave to catch the same train Fujiki Yusaku takes to school.

 

* * *

 

Revolver immediately realized that something was off when he arrived at Cafe Nagi. The van was parked in the corner of the plaza with its bright, cheery yellow hatch clamped shut. It took him several long seconds of baffled staring to realize that it was closed.

 

Closed.

 

He frowns, pulling out his phone to verify that it is indeed a Wednesday and he had six minutes to spare before Fujiki Yusaku is supposed to show up for work. But the Cafe is closed.  

 

Revolver pinches the bridge of his nose to stave off an impending headache. Somehow, he thinks wryly as he stares blankly at the chipping yellow paint job that seems to be mocking him. Somehow this has become a metaphor for his life. Full of toil and desperation, only to meet failure and disappointment at every turn.

 

He sighs, unsure of what to do with himself now that he has made his two-hour journey for nothing. Perhaps this is a sign that this needs to stop. They were all probably right to be worried; Faust, his father, Spectre. Whatever this _thing_ with Fujiki is, it is has gotten completely out of hand.

 

He’s acting completely out of character. Shirking his duties, letting his comrades down, disappointing his father. And for what? Long stretches of awkward silence, three cases of semi-serious food poisoning?

 

Perhaps, he thinks. Perhaps it's time to put an end to this. After all, chasing fantasies is a privilege that belongs to those who still have _futures_. There is a strange hitch in his throat as he gazes up at the truck as he fights down a wave of melancholy.

 

Reluctantly, he turns to leave.

 

But that is exactly when Fujiki Yusaku _sprints_ into the plaza, beautiful face flushed red with little beads of exertion shimmering on his brow.  He makes a beeline for the truck, his chest is heaving as he struggles to regulate his breathing. He was obviously in a hurry, his clothes mussed and his hair in disarray.

 

Revolver's brain immediately short-circuits. All of his thought processes grind to a stuttering halt… only to double back with a vengeance as it furiously churns out series of delusions which involved Fujiki flushed and panting under some vastly different scenarios. But with no clothes on.

 

“I’m sorry for being late, Kusanagi- _san_ ,” Revolver overhears him saying as wrenches open the side door to the truck.

 

“ _I’m sorry for being late, Revolver-sensei,_ ” _Fujiki gasps, cheeks turning a fetching shade of red as Revolver pins his wrists against the blackboard._

 

 _“This won't do, Fujiki-kun,” Revolver murmurs, affecting a stern frown even as a slow, wicked smile curves across his lips. “This is the third time this week. You've been a very naughty boy. And naughty boys get_ **_punished_**. _”_

 

_Fujiki’s beautiful green eyes are wide with alarm as he swoops in and-_

 

Revolver immediately does the mental equivalent of slamming the ESC button, launching himself violently out of his lurid fantasies, just in time to realize that Fujiki had already disappeared inside the truck.

 

He slowly raises a hand and smacks himself hard in the forehead and drags it down his face. There is no way in any universe that he would be able to give up on Fujiki Yusaku.

 

* * *

  


When one’s father masterminds a series of unethical and completely illegal experiments that involves kidnapping and torturing a group of children and then spends the rest of one’s childhood in a coma, one tends to miss out on some key elements of developing into a well-rounded, functioning adult.

 

Like figuring out what to do with these warm burgeoning feelings that he has for a boy that is little more than a stranger.

 

If there is one thing Revolver understands well, it is obsession. The way it gnaws insidiously at your thoughts, worming its way into your mind and digs in its talons until it consumes you. Obsession is as familiar a companion to him as any, leaning over his shoulder and whispering in his ears. Driving him down on the thorny path he had chosen for himself.

 

But now, it is as if he has stumbled into a fork in the road. Or rather, tripped over it and landed on his face, judging by how absolutely disgraceful his behaviour has been. For the first time, his one path is starting to diverge with solemn duty and repentance at one end and jewel green eyes at the other.

 

For the first time he can remember, he _wants_ something more than fulfilling his father's legacy.

 

He  _wants_ Fujiki.

 

He wants Fujiki’s attention, to have those vivid green eyes focused on him like nothing else exists in the world. He wants to hear his voice and listen to him talk about everything and nothing at all if only so he can drown in the sound of those dulcet tones. He wants to reach out and touch him, to feel the silken texture of his hair, the warmth of his skin, the softness of his lips.

 

He wants to close his mouth over those perfect fucking clavicles and suck them until they _bruise_.

 

It's like a dam had burst in his head and a decade of repressed feelings and desires are flooding out all at once. It is both liberating and utterly terrifying when he realizes that he has absolutely no idea what to do about it.

 

As Revolver, the leader of the Knights of Hanoi, he commanded an army, laid siege to the Cyberse world, and brought Link VRAINS to its knees. As Kogami Ryoken... he is stalking a highschool boy in the vain hopes of starting a conversation with him.

 

After that horrifying moment when Fujiki pretended not to know him to his _face_ , things had all been on a steady downward slide. Granted, he may have made a miscalculation showing up at his school, but it didn't take a genius to recognize the uniform.

 

Despite his best efforts, any and all attempts to make contact had been brushed off or outright rejected and he still doesn’t understand why.

 

After a long period of self-reflection, he finally reaches his conclusion with the same determination and tenacity that had allowed him to lead the Hanoi and consume forty-two shit hotdogs over the span of eleven weeks.

 

He's obviously not trying hard enough.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Hidden behind a pair of designer sunshades, steel blue eyes narrow with predatory intent as his target approaches. The schoolboy is completely unaware, a bag slung over his shoulder as he walks. Open. Vulnerable.

 

A cold smile breaks across his face as he falls into step behind him, the hood falling over his distinctive white hair while shading his face from view. He follows behind him, matching his steps to the boy’s meandering gait, letting the sound of the target's footfalls to mask his own. He bides his time, waiting patiently for the crowds to thin away, for the open roads to narrow.

 

He had watched his target for long enough and had run enough simulations on this very moment to get his timing _perfect_.

 

In a blur of white, Revolver darts forward and clamps his hand over his mouth just in time to muffle a panicked shout. It’s almost insultingly easy to drag the boy into the darkened crevice next to them.

 

“Don’t scream. Nod once if you understand,” Revolver murmurs, spinning the boy around and slamming his back against the filthy wall. He makes sure to keep his mouth covered.

 

The boy nods mutely, eyes wide with terror.

 

“Good,” Revolver says with soft menace, drawing on his vast experience in intimidation. He cannot deny the thrill of pleasure as his target shrinks back but doesn’t cry for help when he removes his hand. “As for why you’re here, you have something I want… _Shima Naoki_.”

 

“P-Please don’t hurt me!” the sniveling creature (that had been draping himself all over the object of Revolver’s obsessions) whimpers, his hands shooting up in the universal gesture of surrender. Cowardly and insipid and utterly unworthy of Fujiki Yusaku’s attentions. “Y-You can have my money! And, and, and, I have this… this new duel disk model! _Please take them!_ ”

 

Revolver’s lips curl in distaste, his estimation of the boy dropping to a level below cockroaches and just slightly above politicians. What kind of duelist would offer up their own _duel_ _disk_? Too disgusted to even speak, Revolver yanks the schoolbag off his arm and mercilessly upends its contents on the ground.

 

He ignores the boy’s gasp, keen eyes quickly sorting through the mess before he reaches down and snatches up his prize. This time, his lips curl in satisfaction as he slips the boy’s class schedule into his pocket and turns to go.

 

There is a thump behind him as the boy’s shaking legs give out beneath him but Revolver has completely lost interest.

 

Aside from one more parting remark:

 

“Stay away from Fujiki Yusaku or there will be _consequences_.”

 

* * *

 

Revolver’s blank, golden eyes are narrowed in intense concentration as he studies his screens. If there is anything positive to be said about the network, it is that there is no dearth of self-help articles.

 

Even if most of it consists of useless drivel and spam.

 

His eye twitches as he waves away another obscene pop up blocking the view of his reading. No, he does _not_ want to enlarge his penis in seven days.

 

_‘Be confident. Shyness can hurt more than help when you want to attract the man in your dreams. Don't be afraid to start a conversation.’_

 

Revolver sighs and continues scrolling. If only confidence was the issue.

 

_‘Make eye contact. Guys tend to be more interested if they think you're interested in them first.’_

 

Revolver briefly thinks back to all of their previous encounters and decides probably has this one more than covered.

 

_‘Be suggestive. Nothing gets your guy more excited than a little hint of more than friendly desire. Initiating touch is a good idea, like casually brushing your fingers together, whispering intimately in his ear...’_

 

This was clearly a bad idea. Frustrated, Revolver growls under his breath. There’s no way he’ll actually find the answer to his issues a trashy unverified web search. He exits out of ‘3 EASY STEPS TO SEDUCE YOUR MAN’ in favour of flipping to DuelTube to watch reruns of Playmaker’s duels.

 

He glares at his nemesis’s lovely, jewel green eyes. Eyes that look so much like Fujiki’s that it couldn't be a coincidence. But given the lengths Playmaker had gone to wipe all the digital traces of his identity, what are the chances he would make his avatar look so much like himself?

 

“This is your fault,” he tells his screen, though it doesn’t make him feel any better. “You have ruined me, Playmaker.”

 

Playmaker obviously doesn't respond and attacks one of his grunts with Cyberse Wizard instead. Not giving him the time of day, just like Fujiki Yusaku.

 

Revolver is so absorbed in feeling sorry for himself that he doesn't realize autoplay had been engaged until the screen abruptly changes to ‘SEXY SCHOOL GIRL EATS A BANANA’. and he finds himself watching, mystified.

 

He's left sitting by himself in the dark, eyes still glued to the screen, long after the video ends.

  


“...That could work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> laughs forever
> 
> Also the chapter titles are actually unintended puns  
> I amaze myself sometimes


	6. Link 3 - Side A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusaku makes three mistakes.

Yusaku lets his attention drift, his eyes half-lidded as he peers out at the sky. He had chosen a window seat in the lecture hall to dissuade anyone from sitting next to him while he tries to take a nap.

 

To say he hasn’t slept well in the past days would be a drastic understatement; the scant hours he manages to nod off between the long, endless hours of work are always filled with tumultuous dreams. Yusaku is no stranger to nightmares; for ten years, the sands of sleep would engulf him, dragging him back to that narrow white room from which he would wake up screaming. But recently, his dreams have started to take a different turn. He never remembers them but he always wakes up from them feeling distinctly uncomfortable, his face hot while his heart races a mile a minute as his body trembles with a very different kind of electricity.

 

He thinks he prefers the nightmares; at least they're predictable. Yusaku sighs to himself, watching the clouds go by as if they held the answers to his predicament. Today, they are thin and wispy, curling like white smoke through a cerulean sky, much like those white strands of hair falling into steel blue eyes. Yusaku freezes, suddenly wide awake as he replays his last train of thought back to himself.

 

Then he replays it again just to make sure.

 

By the third time, he has to calmly accept that, yes, he had indeed been thinking about the white-haired stranger despite having zero good reasons for doing so. He dismisses it as another consequence of his sleep deprivation and shakes his head to clear away the intrusive images.

 

The teacher continues to drone on in the background, the sound of his low, nasal voice like a dull buzz in his ears. Yusaku finds himself drifting again, only catching snippets of the lecture as his body tries to get some of the rest it desperately needs.

 

“....astronomers have identified thousands of such hot, dust-obscured galaxies or _**hotDOGs**_ for short. They are the most luminous objects in the sky, sometimes emitting a thousand times more light than the Milky Way…”

 

_I don’t think he was talking about the hotdog, Yusaku-chan._

 

Yusaku startles awake again, suddenly hit with the recollection of _parted lips, the firm, brown skin of the sausage disappearing between them, slick and glistening with oil._

 

The traumatic moment passes just as quickly as it came, leaving him staring down at his white-knuckled grip on the edge of his desk as distress and embarrassment wars inside him in equal measures. His heart hammers in his chest without mercy and he isn't at all closer to understanding _what the fuck is wrong with him_.

 

The shrill shriek of the last bell grates on his ears, but Yusaku has never been more grateful for the distraction from his thoughts. The sentiment seems to be shared by the rest of his classmates as there is a frenzied dash for the exit.

 

As he stands to pack, he happens to lock eyes with Shima Naoki who, for some reason, blanches like he had seen a ghost and bolts from his chair, nearly tripping down the stairs in his haste.

 

* * *

 

 _17:35_.

 

Yusaku frowns as he checks the clock, realizing that he had been glaring at a single line of code for the last fifteen minutes. He gives his head a shake and redoubles his efforts to focus. Five minutes later, he catches himself checking the time again and realizes that this would be an exercise in futility.

 

He leans back in the hard, plastic chair and breathes out slowly. This, he decides, is starting to get out of hand. Not to mention, Kusanagi- _san_ was more worried than ever, compounded with the stress that so much time had passed by without even a hint of what the Hanoi was planning.

 

First, he had assumed incorrectly that whatever had been causing his strange levels of distraction would go away on their own. If anything, his ‘symptoms’ had only worsened as the days went by. His dreams had become increasingly restless; every day he wakes up more tired than he had gone to bed and his mood had become such a downward spiral that even Shima Naoki had taken to avoiding him like the plague. Not that he cares.

 

Second, he seems to be growing increasingly paranoid, imagining glimpses of white hair and blue eyes around every corner, only to be met with swathes of empty space and untouched concrete when he turns to look.

 

Third, if Revolver were to actually show up in front of him now, Yusaku couldn’t be confident that he won’t simply fall off his D-Board from sheer exhaustion.

 

“Excuse me.”

 

Yusaku’s head immediately snaps up, his stomach lurching when he catches a flash of pale hair. But on a closer look, he realizes that the speaker’s hair is more gray than white and his eyes the wrong shade of blue. Yusaku doesn’t want to consider the implications if the utterly crushed feeling in his chest is actually disappointment.

 

“Yes?” he asks blandly, closing the lid on the laptop that he hadn’t been using for the past twenty minutes.

 

The stranger eyes him appraisingly, eyes roving over his face and then down at his slightly untidy uniform with a kind of judgment that Yusaku found both unnecessary and slightly irritating. He looks rather out of place in the plaza, sticking out like a pale ghost with his posh white suit.

 

Yusaku feels a thread of automatic dislike at the sight of the smile stretching across the other’s lips. But when the intruder shows no signs of moving, he fights back a flare of irritation and reluctantly asks, “What do you want.”

 

The stranger actually sneers at him and Yusaku’s hackles rise when the other shoots a pointed glance at the vacant hotdog truck. “To get some proper _service_ here, to start. I want a deluxe Nagi special, fully loaded. Well? Get to it.”

 

Yusaku just stares at him, feeling mildly shell-shocked to be experiencing the joys of the service sector first hand.

 

“I don’t work here,” he tells him and proceeds to ignore him until he goes away.

 

He needs to do something about this _thing_ before it gets out of control.

 

* * *

 

 

“Kusanagi- _san_ ,” Yusaku says stiffly. His voice must have come out direr than he had intended it to since the other man immediately swivels around with something akin to panic on his face.

 

“What is it, Yusaku?” he asks with an urgency that makes him wish he hadn't spoken.

 

Yusaku draws a deep breath, steeling himself as he continues on. “Kusanagi- _san_ , is there a working theory on how the Another virus affects its victims? Or a way to scan for it medically?”

 

Kusanagi- _san_ seems to sag with what Yusaku thought might be relief and leans back into his chair. “Not that I'm aware of. As far as we know, the doctors can't identify what is wrong with the patients, only that they can't regain consciousness. The most popular theory is that the Another virus locks their brainwave patterns to a level below what is needed to awaken, trapping them in some kind of sustained REM state.”

 

“Blue Angel,” Yusaku says slowly, brows knitting together in thought. “It wouldn't be a stretch to assume that she was patient zero. Revolver must have wanted to test out the virus. But her symptoms were different.”

 

Kusanagi-san nods absently. “True. From what I remember, it was dormant in her until partway through the duel. It seemed to have been paining her. It also caused behavioural and personality changes, possibly due to errors in rewriting her brain chemistry.”

 

“So it's possible that the virus can remain undetected for an unknown period of time,” Yusaku concludes, frowning hard at his screen as he brings up a recent piece of footage. “We don't know how Blue Angel could have gotten infected, but it's not a stretch to hypothesize that she had been ambushed at some point before our duel. We do know that it can be transmitted through proximity with the Knights of Hanoi.”

 

The older man gives an absent hum as he reaches for his mug. “Yeah. But what all brought this on, Yusaku?”

 

“I believe I have been infected with a mind virus.”

 

The mouthful of coffee Kusanagi-san had taken ends up splattered across the desk.

 

* * *

 

 

“Okay,” Kusanagi- _san_ says slowly, with the air of someone who is trying very hard to remain calm. “Let's take this from the top. What makes you think you've been infected?”

 

Yusaku stares mutely at the sodden pile of paper towers clumped over the table as he continues to regret opening up this particular can of worms.

 

“Yusaku?” Kusanagi- _san_ prompts him, realizing his reluctance. “Yusaku, please talk to me. Or I can’t help you!”

 

“Yeah, yeah, Playmaker- _sama_!” Ai pipes up from the side, leaning precariously out from his duel disk. “Geez, I would be a horrible partner if I couldn’t tell that you had been infected! That’s against my pride as an AI!”

 

Yusaku continues staring resolutely at the desk and keeps his lips firmly pressed together as his hands unconsciously curl into fists. “Lately,” he says, unable to meet their eyes, “I have been suffering from inexplicable heart palpitations, shortness of breath, and an inability to focus.”

 

Kusanagi- _san_ ’s face, while still tense, relaxes just a fraction. “Well, there could be many medical reasons for that. Stress can cause a lot of those symptoms, made worse by a poor diet or sleep deprivation.”

 

If only that was it, Yusaku laments. “I’ve also… I’ve also been experiencing bouts of visual and auditory hallucinations.”

 

“You’ve… what?”

 

Yusaku takes a breath to centre himself, still absolutely refusing to look at anyone. “I am repeated flashes of… Memories that are interfering with my ability to concentrate.”

 

“You mean, like your nightmares?” Yusaku stiffens further when a pair of hands grip his shoulders. “Yusaku, why didn't you say anything earlier? Is this why you've been so distracted recently?”

 

“Ah, no,” he tries to correct him, but he can't seem to grasp the right words, oddly flustered all of a sudden. His head feels warm like he's on the verge of breaking out into a fever. “No, not nightmares. Just…”

 

Kusanagi- _san_ chokes.

 

“Oh,” he says.

 

Ai nods sagely, the lines on his face stretching into a somewhat grotesque smirk. “Ah, ah, spring is in the air! It's that pretty boy, isn't it? The one with the _tongue_ \- Urk!”

 

The Ignis falls mercifully quiet when Yusaku’s hand closes tightly around his head. But the damage has already been done; his own cheeks flash crimson when those traumatizing hallucinations resurface with a vengeance.

 

“Not if I can help it,” Kusanagi- _san_ mutters.

 

* * *

 

 

To say that Yusaku isn’t concerned that the white-haired stranger seems to have memorized his schedule, would be a complete lie.

 

The youth no longer seems to be making an effort to pretend that their run-ins were _coincidental_. There is nothing coincidental about how he unfailingly shows up after his classes end or seems to know with an uncanny sixth sense to know when he catches his trains. And there is nothing _coincidental_ about the deliberate way he drags out the syllables of his name with low, throaty purrs, or the way his silvery blue eyes track his every movement. Eyes that never fails to make his stomach twist itself up in knots.

 

He can do without knowing out _how_ he's doing this if only he could figure out the _why_.

 

Yusaku spends their encounters on edge, always on the cusp of a flight or fight response, his heart beating a painful tattoo against the inside of his chest.  Sometimes, he's convinced this is all an elaborate Hanoi ploy and any day now, the youth will snap and drag him into a dark, narrow alleyway and take his kidneys.

 

But, so far, all their interactions had been… more or less harmless.

 

Aside from that one Hotdog Incident (that his mind can't help but travel back to with irritating frequency), the youth had been nothing but courteous and pleasant. Always greeting him with a soft ‘ _Fujiki-san_ ’ and an enigmatic smile.

 

Occasionally, he offers to help him carry his school bag, or shows up with _coffee_. Yusaku bluntly turns him down every time with increasing bewilderment but it only seems to encourage him.

 

He really needs to do something about this before it really gets out of control.

 

Like file a restraining order.

 

* * *

 

Although, Yusaku thinks as he stares up into a pair of intense steel-blue eyes, it might already be too late.

 

“My apologies,” the white-haired youth says without a hint of chagrin. Or a hint of apology for that matter. Yusaku endures it silently until the next lurch of the train sends them both stumbling. The other boy ends up bracing himself against the doors, hands pressed on either side of his head.

 

 _Too close_.

 

Yusaku inadvertently ends up smacking the back of his head against the glass in an attempt to put more distance between their faces. They're pressed flush, close enough for him to count each of his pale eyelashes and smell the faint hint of cologne, something light and musky that he doesn't completely hate. It's getting unreasonably hot in this cramped car, especially with all the passengers packed so tightly.

 

But he doesn't need to be an AI to calculate the odds that they would end up literally _chest to chest_.

 

It’s too early in the morning for this, he decides as he wills the persistent heat in his face to go away. His brow furrows with consternation, his body growing increasingly tense as he counts down the seconds to the next train stop. Without any room for movement, Yusaku settles for staring straight ahead, but, with their height difference, meant his cold gaze landed somewhere in the region of his jawline… and his smooth pink lips.

 

“Fujiki- _san_ ,” the stranger suddenly decides to pick this moment up speak up and a shiver runs down his neck at the sound of those velvety tones so close to his ear.

 

_Too close!!_

 

He tries to steady himself with a breath but it turned out to be a terrible miscalculation since all he ends up accomplishing was filling his nostrils with more of that beguiling scent. His brain cycles rapidly through a set of possible responses to having his name like _that_ , each equally as useless as the next. Instead, he’s filled with an endless stream of questions.

 

Why is he here? What is he after? Why does the mere sight of his face turn make all his neurons collectively misfire like one of Revolver’s ridiculous dragons when he doesn't even know something as basic as his _name?_

 

But all his thoughts come to a messy, screeching, halt when he commits his second mistake; he looks up. Suddenly, those normally opaque blue eyes are no longer so unreadable. Now, they _sear_ , boring into his own with a smouldering heat and broiling turmoil. It holds him captive, pinning him in place far more effectively than the claustrophobically tight space. Yusaku forgets how to breathe, forgets where he is as the pounding of his own heart roars in his ears.

 

Then the train shudders, forward momentum jostling them to the side, before grinding to an anticlimactic halt. The two seconds between the bells chiming and doors opening had been the longest moment of his life (aside from the six months he had spent in literal captivity).

 

As a man of strategy, Yusaku is more than capable of recognizing when one needs to make a tactical retreat and live to fight another day. Which why he practically runs from the car in his haste to flee from the weight of his own hopelessly complicated feelings.

 

Or at least, that had been the plan, until one of the passengers in the car suddenly bucks up against the youth’s back in a galling display of rush-hour selfishness. The youth stumbles forward in an uncharacteristic lack of gracefulness and Yusaku makes his third mistake of the day when he neglects to watch his step.

 

Time slows down to a slow but frantic crawl as Yusaku feels the gravity shift against his favour, weightlessness settling over his limbs as concrete rushes up to meet him. He lands with a jolting thump, a spike of pain ricocheting off his senses when his spine breaks his fall. The impact of a warm body against his chest pushes the air out of his lungs and he gasps… into a pair of open lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahahahaha
> 
> ahahahaa
> 
> haaaaaaaaaa
> 
> (I give up on life)


	7. Link 3 - Side B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revolver almost makes the greatest mistake of his life. Several times.

 

 

**A fatal error has occurred. Initiating [System Reboot].**

**All attempts to reboot the [System] has failed.**

**Initiating [Transaction Rollback] to previous [Restore Point] in**

**3...**

**2...**

**1...**

**[** _Static_ **]**

 

* * *

 

Kogami Ryoken is kissing Fujiki Yusaku.

Kogami RYOKEN is KISSING FU **JIKI YU _SAKU!!_**

He had once announced this to Playmaker, his voice solemn with a cold, brutal conviction: the internet world is a fiction. The only things that are real are the breath and heartbeat of life. But at the moment he seems to possess _neither_. Oxygen deliberately avoids his lungs while his heart refuses to pump as time and space compress down to this one moment. He's sure he's dead, transcended past the boundaries of his mortal flesh and reached eternal bliss in the form of soft skin and softer lips. Or perhaps it's the opposite: he has never felt more alive.

His father had once lamented the fragility of the flesh and sought to preserve humanity in all its immortal beauty. Kogami Kiyoshi had believed the answer lay in artificial intelligence. Kogami Ryoken believes he just has to keep kissing Fujiki Yusaku.

He's so completely lost in his euphoria that it takes him an unacceptable amount of time to realize that the object of his obsession isn't responding. With bone-deep reluctance, Revolver finally pulls back after what felt like an eternity.

Fujiki Yusaku is flushed and panting just like in his wildest dreams (dreams that had him gasping awake in the middle of the night, his bedsheets damp from sweat and other things), but there is a hint of pain in those dazed green eyes.

“Fu… Fujiki- _san?_ ” He doesn't stutter. The leader of the Knights of Hanoi doesn't stutter, nor does he _hover_ like a concerned parent as he gingerly helps Fujiki up off the ground. Alarmingly, the younger boy does not reject his help and even _leans into his arm for balance_ , his beautiful face twisted into a faint grimace. “Fujiki- _san_ , are you alright?”

“Ah, I'm fine,” the boy mumbles, his cheeks still tinged with that dangerous shade of pink as he averts his eyes. “I just…”

Once again, Revolver finds his heart and breath and brain stolen away as he gazes down into his eyes. He's completely transfixed, staring at him like he's the only person in the world. The sky, the station, the angry commuters shoving to get around them... all of it vanishes as he drowns in those beautiful pools of green. Revolver _wants_ like he's never wanted before. He opens his mouth again, perhaps to finally give voice to this chaotic maelstrom of emotions that he had been carrying around for all this time.

And then, Fujiki Yusaku passes out in his arms.

 

* * *

 

For all of Revolver’s unflappable charisma and unwavering convictions, most of his actions had come from a place of fear.

First, it had been fear that had driven him to make that ill-fated call. The six children had haunted his dreams, their pain seared into the inside of his eyes every time he closed them as their screams echoed in his ears. Every time they cried out, he could almost feel it on his own skin; the phantom crackle of electricity, the burning smell of ozone. But by giving into the fear of his nightmares he had created a worse one for himself.

Second, it had been fear that had driven him to follow his father. Blindly, loyally, unquestioningly. His chest curdling with the bitter taste of regret and loss. As he had aged, his high childish voice (that had whispered _three things)_ deepened into the heavy tenors of an adult. But inside him, that small fearful boy was crying out all the same, too scared to lose his father once again.

And third, it had been fear that he might have accidentally murdered the love of his life that had driven him into carrying his prone body all the way home.

In his defence, it had seemed like a logical and well-contrived plan at the time. One, as a secret cyber-terrorist, it was not a good idea for him to bring him to a hospital and potentially be implicated with any criminal wrongdoing. Two, Revolver couldn't risk revealing the true extent of his investigations (stalking) by taking him back to Fujiki’s rundown basement since he definitely _should not_ be privy to that kind of information. Three, if he took him to Cafe Nagi, he would then have to explain to its suspicious owner why he hadn't settled on option one.

Which is why Revolver is sitting on the edge of his king-sized bed with his face in his hands as fingers of dread slowly claw at his psyche.

 _This_ , he realizes with a sudden burst of clarity, _counts as kidnapping, doesn't it?_

To make matters worse, he had been witnessed very obviously carrying an unconscious schoolboy in his arms for the two hours it had taken to get back home. Depending on the fallout from this grievous error, he would have single-handedly destroyed everything he and his comrades had fought for with one fell swoop.

In his defense, none of this would have been at all necessary if Fujiki hadn't _swooned_ into his arms. Revolver at least had the foresight to check him over for injuries and found no unusual bumps on his head or any visible signs of trauma that could have been the cause of his sudden unconsciousness. He had found nothing, no rhyme or reason behind the cause of his single greatest ordeal.

Next to him, Fujiki Yusaku slumbers on, indifferent to his plight. He is also missing his jacket, his tie, and his shoes since Revolver’s mind had completely shut down at the thought of going any further. Unfortunately, with his serene expression, the gentle rise and fall of his chest, and the soft breaths tickling his silken bangs, Fujiki Yusaku looks even more like an angel than usual. He wants to kiss him again - that brief touch from before had opened up a Pandora's box of desires, setting a decade’s worth of inner demons loose on the world.

Those sinfully long lashes, the delicate curve of his cheekbones, those tantalizing pink lips… it occurs to him that this is the first opportunity he's had almost unlimited time to admire his features up close. He is already leaning in before he can help himself, eyes hopelessly drawn to the welcoming space between his gently parted lips.

This, is beyond a shadow of a doubt, the worst idea he has ever had in his life.

Especially when those startlingly emerald eyes fly open about an inch away from his own.

 

* * *

 

Revolver stares blankly at his reflection in his lukewarm tea. The unpalatable brown liquid ripples slightly from his breath but it ultimately offers him no insight as to what he is supposed to say to the kidnapped boy sitting across from him at his coffee table. Out of the corner of his eye, he spies a hint of navy blue from where the freshly laundered uniform had been hung out to dry.

The silence continues to stretch, elongating well past the territory of awkward and is now bordering the realm of physical pain. It grates on him, magnifying infinitesimal sounds to a pounding roar. He becomes acutely aware of the rustle of Fujiki’s borrowed clothing every time he shifts, the soft sounds of his exhalations and the quiet _plonks_ as he drops yet another cube of sugar into his cup. He counts four of them before he finally reaches his limit and glances up.

Only to unexpectedly lock eyes with the boy who must have been put on this green earth for the sole purpose of stressing him out. His pulse leaps up another gear, sending him careening further along the path to his inevitable destruction. Fujiki almost immediately averts his eyes, turning his attention back to the bottom of his cup, his brows knitted in a frown that Revolver’s fingers itch to smooth away. Among a great deal of other things he would like to do with his fingers.

He is so many different kinds of fucked.

“I'm sorry,” Fujiki ventures so suddenly that Revolver nearly drops his cup. His eyes immediately swivel back to his face but the other boy is still refusing to look at him. “For earlier.” There seems to be a faint hint of pink creeping up his cheeks and Revolver watches its progression with fascination.

It takes far, far longer than Revolver would have liked to process his words but they eventually make their way through the haze of ‘ _oh my god Fujiki Yusaku is actually talking to me in my house and wearing my clothes’_ clouding his thoughts. He does a double take, eyes widening since for the life of him, he can’t figure out why he’s _apologizing_.

“It was nothing to apologize for,” he says, keeping his voice as even as he can possibly make it. He's not entirely sure he succeeds. Especially since every time he tries to access his memory storage for _earlier_ , his brain just... sort of short-circuits. Aside from a few curious impressions of warmth followed by a burst of pain from where his head had smacked against his side-table, he finds that he can’t actually recall _earlier_ with any kind of accuracy. He takes a sip of his over-steeped tea to buy time and mildly regrets it when the flavour actually hits his tongue. He finally has Fujiki as his captive audience, sitting less than a meter away and showing no indications of wanting to run… yet… and he still can’t seem to string his thoughts together. Perhaps, he should have spent less time stalking his classmates and more time rehearsing his speeches.

“I was concerned when you suddenly lost consciousness.” Apparently, that wasn’t the right thing to say because the tense line in Fujiki’s shoulders suddenly grows tauter. When no answer seems to be forthcoming, he takes a shallow breath and tries again.

“Will you…” - _call the police? let me kiss you again?-_ “...be alright? To return on your own?”

Fujiki makes a small noise of ascent but still doesn’t look up. Revolver takes another swallow of his tea since tea is supposed to help steady nerves. It ends up being another poor decision since the other boy decides to choose this exact timing to ask, “Why have you been following me around?”

Revolver coughs, tears stinging his eyes as he tries to expel the liquid from his lungs. On the plus side, this affords him several seconds of borrowed time whilst he subtly tries not to choke to death. Clearly, he had underestimated Fujiki Yusaku’s terrifying ability to ignore all social graces and small talk in favour of striking at the heart of the matter. Then again, Revolver _was_ indeed the one who had abducted him from a public space so perhaps they were slightly past the point for pleasantries.

But this brings him back to the greatest dilemma of his life; what the _fuck_ is he supposed to say?

Eloquence isn’t any more forthcoming than the first time he had laid eyes on Fujiki in the first chapter of their meeting. At least then, he had the excuse of being a paying customer, the burning out grill between them as much a barrier as it had been a shield. The sad, cold truth of the matter is that... he hadn’t actually expected to ever get this far, and thus had never properly planned for this occasion. He hastily lays out his options now.

One, he can deny everything until he’s blue in the face and try to pass off weeks of blatant stalking as completely coincidental. He won’t insult either of their intelligences with so painfully transparent a charade. Despite what his initially poor cooking skills and subpar grades hint at, Fujiki Yusaku is no fool.

Two, he can finally give voice that one burning question that had set all of this in motion.

_What do you know about the incident ten years ago?_

It weighs in this throat like lead, just like it did all those times he had chosen not to ask it. Telling himself it hadn't been the time or place; too public, too late, too _awkward_. But now, with no one to bear witness, nowhere else for either of them to be, he has run out of excuses.

With just one question, he can finally link together the final pieces of the puzzle that have haunted his dreams: the white rooms... the young, terrified voice... and Playmaker's true identity. With just one question, he can further Hanoi’s plans of rooting out its greatest obstacle and satisfy his own burning curiosity in one fell swoop. Here, with his delicate frame dwarfed by one of Revolver’s spare shirts, the boy that could be Playmaker would be in no position to resist him. He could rip the Ignis from his hands and finally fulfil his purpose.

But Revolver can’t think of anything less appealing than to look upon that beautiful face and see either Playmaker’s hate-filled eyes staring back or the phantom of that frail, terrified child clinging to his wet lashes.

Kogami Ryoken is discovering that he is tired of ghosts.

The boy sitting in front of him now could not be more real. Gazing at him expectantly with a pair of vivid green eyes that seem to bore into his very soul. His obsession, his desire, this _thing_ has long since evolved far beyond any of his expectations, permeating every cell in his body.

This leaves him with only one third, final option.

Revolver sets down his cup with a click of finality.

“Fujiki Yusaku,” he says, meeting those haunting green eyes dead on. “I am drawn to you.”

Fujiki’s eyes widen in surprise, his pink lips parting to form questions but Revolver continues before he can speak, before he loses his fucking nerve. _You only live once_ , he vaguely remembers reading somewhere as he reaches out to cup Fujiki’s cheeks, eyes burning with smouldering intensity as he tries to convey even a fraction of the rush of hopelessly entangled emotions that he makes him feel. He leans in, his heart beating so painfully loud that he’s convinced the younger boy can hear it. The world narrows down to those bright green eyes, the soft puffs of their intermingled breath...

Suddenly, that narrow gap between their lips becomes an uncrossable ravine when Fujiki pulls back so abruptly that he sends his chair clattering to the ground.

“I,” Fujiki says, averting his eyes. “I have to go.”

Revolver makes no move to stop him as he turns and heads for the only exit, only staring blankly ahead at those tensed, retreating shoulders. The silence in his head has never felt so loud. It eats at him, hollowing out his chest and he numbly wonders if this is what it means to be completely devastated.

 

 

 

But then, the footfalls stop right by the door and Revolver’s heart stops beating along with them, counting down every last second in this moment of suspended inaction. Fujiki turns just slightly, but it’s more than enough for him to see the furious shade of red darkening his cheeks.

“Thanks,” he murmurs. “... for the tea.” The deliberate pause at the end of his sentence doesn’t escape his notice and Revolver scrambles to fill it, a raw, painful hope burgeoning in his chest.

“Re-” he catches himself before he can make the _real_ greatest mistake of his life, “-yoken.”

“Thanks,” Fujiki repeats, green eyes still downcast and Revolver would give anything in that moment to believe that he’s not hallucinating the shy, near-imperceptible smile on his lips. “...Ryoken- _san_.”

The door closes behind him and Revolver waits until his footsteps completely fade before making a mad dash for the window, practically plastering himself against it to try to catch a glimpse of him leaving. He doesn’t move from his spot for a very, very long time, staring out over the cliffs, well after Fujiki’s shadow vanishes from his vantage point.

He leans against the glass and finally allows himself to let out the breath he had been holding and remains in that position for another ten minutes which is about how long it takes for his legs to hold his weight again. Slowly, his lips curl, until it stretches into something wide and manic and possibly deranged as his chest feels so full that it’s on the verge of bursting.

 

_Ryoken-san._

 

_Ryoken-san. Ryoken-san. Ryoken-san._

 

The sound of his name in Fujiki’s soft syllables reverberates through his soul and he has the wildest urge to scream. Instead, he buries his face in his hands and focuses on regulating his breaths.

He is so very fucked.

Revolver absently straightens his jacket and marches over to yank off the long, pale curtains that he had hastily draped over the medical apparatus in the middle of the room. He gazes down at the bed’s sole occupant as he makes his confession.

“... Father, I think I might need to have that talk now. ”


End file.
